Decisions
by L.M.Lewis
Summary: The outcomes of split-second choices.


Disclaimer: These characters are not mine and I make no profit from them

**Author's Note**: It's Deanna's plot bunny, from the Gulls Way Board, and another story from volume three of the BKStar 'zines. I would have preferred my 100th posting on ffnet to have been specially tailored to that purpose, but I finagled this one into position as a make-do, in that it looks back from near the end to a point before the beginning.

_Hardcastle: Show the boy t'the gatehouse. Give 'im a key._

_Sara: The __gate__house__? What's wrong with the gardener's trailer?_

_ Hardcastle: The gate house, Sara._

(Scene 100, "Rolling Thunder")

**Decisions**

By L. M. Lewis

**Two and a half years later**

"And you'll need to have it done by ten-thirty."

Mark glanced up from the pan of eggs he'd been frying, shot a quick look at the clock and said, "That's only a couple hours. There's _cinderblock_ out there, and weeds. What's the big hurry? All of a sudden it's a problem?"

"Cinderblock, and weeds," Hardcastle huffed. "That's the problem. If I'm gonna have this placed spiffed up for those lady gardeners by next month, I have to get a move-on. The trailer's gotta go."

Mark frowned at the eggs. "But why ten-thirty?"

"'Cause that's when they're coming to haul it off. It's a blight."

"But what if you get a gardener?"

"I _have_ a gardener," Hardcastle shot back testily.

"Moving cinderblock is not technically gardening."

"Then it's a good thing you're also the landscape guy and the handyman."

Hardcastle was on his feet and had a drawer open. He rattled through it, finally extracting a key ring with a curled pasteboard tag attached to it. He handed it over to his unhappy handyman.

"Make sure there aren't any tools in there, too."

Mark sighed, stuffed it in the pocket of his jeans, and flipped the eggs.

00000

He stared at the undercarriage dubiously and hoped they were bringing a flatbed truck. The axles were rusted and the tires flat. It wasn't precisely a blight. Obviously it had been kept otherwise in good repair. There was just an air of unoccupancy about it—a fine crusting of sea salt on the window and a bow to the weathered wooden step by the door.

He'd cleared away the blocks on two sides, carrying them as far as the drive, to await further disposition. He'd pulled the weeds obstructing the view of what was below. It was a little after ten.

Mark fished in his pocket for the key and put a foot on the step, reaching for the lock. It went in stubbornly. He rattled it for a moment, thinking this might be one of those jobs where the picks would be faster. He smiled, chuckled, and suppressed the thought. The lock finally gave and the door swung open on slightly creaky hinges.

There was a waft of overheated mustiness from within. Dim, too, the power had been turned off some time back. He stepped up and in, reaching across to open the louvered window above the tiny sink. More creaking. It jammed, then finally gave. The ocean breeze seemed, by contrast, cool.

He surveyed the interior with unexpected curiosity. He'd walked by it a thousand times, but never had any reason to go inside—no reason and no particular desire. It was compact, all one small, efficiently-designed space except for the tiny, closed-off bathroom at the back.

_Like a cell_. The thought hit him, leaving a palpable knot in the vicinity of his stomach.

He waited for a moment. It passed. Then, almost perversely, he reached over and closed the door. He stood there for a moment longer, then sat down on the edge of the small bed and waited. He was pleased to note that the sensation didn't return. Or if it had, it was so subtle that a few deep breaths dispelled it. Still, he wondered what it might have been like to have come here right from the lock-up.

_It's not a cell if you can open the door and walk out._

He supposed that was true, in a philosophical sort of way. But the knot had been very real. He frowned. The last occupant was currently in prison. J.J. Beal had only spent one night in this place, though Mark suspected the chances were good that he'd never had any intention of lasting longer. He squinted for a moment, trying to picture it, wondering if what he'd done—taking off in the 'Vette—might have been unpremeditated.

_Maybe it was the knot._

No, he'd met Beal. There was a man who would prefer reigning in hell to serving in Gulls Way, that much seemed certain.

He got to his feet slowly and conducted his casual search. He doubted that there'd be anything to find. Surely Hardcastle had gone over the place in the wake of Beal's departure.

_Or maybe not._ _Might've been in a hurry to get the posse out after him. And after that, well, might've just wanted to put the whole thing behind him._

He opened a drawer in the small built-in cabinet alongside the bed. Socks, t-shirts. Arranged neatly. Neater than his dresser back in the gate house. He frowned. He reached in. He rifled through the shirts and then felt something small and firm lying beneath them. He lifted the corner and saw very nearly what he'd expected to see, from the familiar feel of it.

He picked the case up—well-worn black leather. There were just a couple of nicks and scars to indicate it hadn't been just for show. He unzipped it and inspected the contents, everything present and accounted for. It was a slightly nicer set than his own.

He sat back down on the bed, case in his hand and drawer still open in front of him. Socks are merely socks, it's true, but the contents of the case were like friends—more than friends, sometimes. Staunch allies. They were the power to go through doors.

_You don't leave your friends behind._

Well, he supposed, when you got right down to it, not your socks, either, if you can help it. He blinked once, and saw the whole thing in a sudden and very different light. 'Convict labor,' Sara had said. And Beal had come here, knowing that, and he'd put his socks and tools away, and gone up to the main house for dinner. And then . . . _What?_

_He was coming back here, after dinner, after dark, and he_ . . .

Mark tried to picture it, Beal in a moment of . . . something approaching panic. A decision made on the fly, the 'Vette there, the judge inside the house, the gardener's trailer before him. The knot.

_People like Beal don't panic._

Friends and socks suddenly abandoned. He must've thought he could do it--work for Hardcase--but afterwards he would never have admitted he'd been willing to try.

Mark nudged the drawer closed with his knee. It was that close at hand. Everything was. It was an astonishingly claustrophobic place.

He held on to the case. He opened the door and stepped out with a sense of relief and a swipe of his sleeve across his sweaty face. The haulers were not yet here.

He left the trailer door unlocked behind him and strolled back up to the house, past the open garage with the 'Vette parked in its spot, up the steps to the kitchen door. Hardcastle was still there, coffee cup at hand and paper open on the table.

"Done? Find any tools?" the judge said, barely looking up.

Mark contemplated that for a moment and then said, "Just these," as he tossed the case down lightly next to the open sports section.

Hardcastle looked startled, but only briefly puzzled. He'd had enough exposure to recognize that sort of thing right off. He did pick it up and unzip it, as if to confirm what he already suspected. He frowned down on them, then looked up at McCormick. It was fairly obvious that he'd already run the same scenario and drawn the same conclusions.

"Huh," he finally shook his head. "He never acted scared. Even when we finally cornered him, in Louisiana, he made it sound like he'd planned it right from the start."

"'Course he did," Mark said practically. "He'd have to say that. The other way would have been too damn embarrassing. But you're sure you didn't know?" He pulled a chair out and sat down.

Hardcastle shook his head again, this time more slowly. "Nah, mighta hoped that's what it was, on account of that wouldn't have made me such a bad judge of character, but he was pretty convincing, before _and_ after."

"Hmm, yeah, at least about the 'after'," Mark leaned back a little. He sat silently for a moment, not looking Hardcastle in the eye. He finally asked it, almost sharply. "Did _I_ look scared?"

The look of bafflement on the judge's face seemed to be an answer by itself.

"I just wondered . . . if you knew, that's all."

"What?"

"You know, about the trailer, if you _knew_." Mark stared at him, saw nothing that looked like enlightenment, and then said, suddenly, "Never mind."

But now the judge appeared intrigued. "Don't go all mysterious on me. What the hell else is out there?"

McCormick gave him another look, half chagrin and half irritation.

"Socks," he said abruptly. "Some t-shirts. That's pretty much it."

"I suppose we can forward 'em to him," Hardcastle said, still looking confused. "He's up in Folsom. Maximum security . . . not these of course." He nodded to the case and grinned slightly, probably hoping for some quid pro quo.

McCormick wasn't in a cooperative mood, nor was he ready to explain why. He thought he'd leave matters right where they were. There was no explaining things to a donkey. He was up, out of the chair, and already half-turned away when he heard Hardcastle start to speak again.

"You mean is that why I put you in the gatehouse?"

It was such an unexpected leap of deduction, that it froze him right where he stood. It was a moment before he gathered himself and looked back over his shoulder. Hardcastle was studying him. He seemed to be waiting for an answer.

Mark acknowledged the question with a half-muttered "Yeah." Then he asked it again, straight out, "Is that why you didn't put me out there? Did you know? Was it that obvious?"

"No," the judge shook his head. "Well, I dunno. Maybe I didn't really think about it all that much. I'm not even sure I knew I was going to do it until I said it." He frowned. "Just one of those split-second decisions, I suppose. Would it have mattered?"

From an amazing feat of deductive reasoning to utter uncomprehending density—Mark's astonishment was complete. He wanted to take the man out there, sit him down in the trailer, and say, "Now—think two years." He doubted it would make things any more obvious. It was one of those concepts that didn't work well as mere theory.

Hardcastle was talking again; he'd missed the first few words but the meaning seemed clear, ". . . mighta thought that wasn't the best arrangement for the long haul, ya know? Kinda cramped out there. Okay for a few weeks or a month maybe—"

"But not indefinitely," Mark said. He shook his head. "Hell, might not've even worked for one night. I dunno." He stood there for a moment and then finally smiled.

"It was a good call."


End file.
